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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24763312">Rootbound</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh'>cassieoh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And After [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Greenhouse, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), also Aziraphale is bad at baking, but lord he tries, but the pot is also a metaphor, look the plants are a metaphor, softe as hell, the aftermath of 6000 of pining and trying to be someone youre not</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:27:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24763312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was just a little messy here.</p><p> </p><p>(no knowledge of the rest of the series required, Guess the Author, round #1 "you started it")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Plants</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And After [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SOSH - Guess the Author #1 "You started it"</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rootbound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don’t you be that way. I know you don’t like new pots, but really, you started it getting all <em> eager </em> about growing.” Crowley jabbed one finger into the soil, deep enough to poke at a bundle of roots, hopelessly bound up around themselves—tangled tight and growing ever tighter. The plant did not respond, they rarely did (save a chatty <em> Ceropegia woodii </em>he’d bought in 1973 and been forced to abandon with Aziraphale after two sleepless years listening to it natter away). </p><p>The plant drew itself in tighter, stiff leaves vibrating slightly. It could not rustle the way many of his other plants could; <em> Sansevieria </em>were, far too prim for that. Well. Not prim. Upright, noble, all that rot. Their leaves grew from a central point in the soil, a halo of smooth shafts, each ticked in alternating light-dark bands. This particular specimen had the loveliest blue undertone that often left Crowley feeling oddly guilty after he scolded it. </p><p>“Everyone <em> else </em>took repotting without complaining.” Crowley curled the finger around the largest section of root and gently, slowly, beginning the long task of teasing it away from the main tangle. He wasn’t even lying to the plant (he’d never lied to the plants, it would undermine his authority if they found out). </p><p>He canted the pot over, allowing the soil he’d loosened to pour onto the greenhouse floor. Cleanup was easier here. Sure, in Mayfair all he’d had to do was snap, but the existence of any sort of mess there had felt like–</p><p>Things, people, who made messes weren’t allowed to linger, not in that perfect, sterile place. </p><p>This greenhouse and the cottage weren’t–</p><p>Everything was just a little messy here; tracked mud in from the garden, little clouds of flour settled on the counter after Aziraphale clapped his hands (in satisfaction and dismay, his baking was a work-in-progress, but they enjoyed sampling his efforts), their bedroom was a riot of Crowley’s slim-cut jeans and dresses and Aziraphale’s to-be-read piles. Sometimes Crowley tripped when he went for water in the night and his feet were still protesting existing (he’d never got the hang of feet, hands he liked, you could do a lot of wonderful things with hands, but feet had caused him no end of trouble). </p><p>The plants around him—repotted and watered and suddenly reflecting back all the love and happiness Crowley had always felt but never allowed to show—rustled with encouragement this time. </p><p><b><em>We know you can do it,</em></b> they chorused<em>,</em><b><em> Look how happy you’ll be. </em></b></p><p>“Listen to them.” Crowley drew the plant from where it had grown (<em>stifled </em>, he thought, long-suppressed emotion rising in him). “You’ll be okay.” With great care, he settled the plant into its new pot—a garishly decorated thing the Them insisted on decorating the last time they were over. </p><p>“There,” he pat the new soil down, ensuring it was secure. He could hear Aziraphale cursing as his daily bread-attempt went up in flames, signaling the end of Crowley’s time in the garden. “Welcome home.” </p>
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